A Message for John
by Book.D.Vourer321
Summary: ...And I cast a spell over the West to make you think of me, the same way I think of you. This is a love song, in my own way... Sherlock sends John a message. Just four little words. Post-Reichenbach minor spoilers . To me it's gen, but if you wear permanent slash goggles, then there's nothing I can do about it.


**This, to me, is gen, mainly because I think it's Sherlock summing up how he feels about John in a way that's easy for John to understand, and then presenting it to him in his usual flamboyant way. However, if you have a permanent pair of slash goggles on, there's nothing I can do to stop you from seeing it that way.**

**Anyway, this will tie into a story I write later, but for now, this is a oneshot. It's post Reichenbach, and slightly angsty at the start, but it gets better. It's also kinda hurt/comfort, seeing as it's Sherlock trying to make John feel better in the only way he can.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. No matter how much I wish I did.**

**A Message for John**

…_And I cast a spell over the west to make you think of me, the same way I think of you. This is a love song in my own way… -Bang the Doldrums by Fall Out Boy._

John sighed, sinking back into his armchair. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of a busy street and some rubbish soap opera flood his ears, driving out all coherent thought. But really, that's what he wanted. To be rid of all thoughts, all feelings, all… memories. Memories that woke him in the night, memories that struck at him in his every waking moment…

No! He couldn't think about that. At least, not now. He would deal with it later, when it was more… convenient. For now, he'd lock it up at the back of his mind. Or try to.

"Hannah Susanna reporting live from Times Square about the mysterious phenomenon plaguing every electronic device in Western Europe, and even some devices in the United States."

John opened his eyes with a groan and began looking for the remote. The last thing he wanted to hear was some 'breaking news' about a technological meltdown that would probably spark the next line of doomsday prophecies.

"What many find curious about this situation is the message of whoever has planned this global malfunction. Just four words: I love you, John. It is unclear who the sender, or even the recipient, of this message is, but one thing is certain; whoever this 'John' is, he is most definitely a lucky man."

Staring at the screen, mouth agape, John spluttered. _It couldn't be. It couldn't be. It- It couldn't be! It was impossible._

Jumping to his feet, he snatched up his laptop and wrenched it open. True to the reporter's words, the phrase 'I love you, John' was scrawled across his wallpaper. As he impatiently opened up his internet browser, he flicked over to the news channel. The message was there as well, repeating itself over and over in the ticker down the bottom of the broadcast. Turning back to his laptop, he felt his eyes widen as he looked at the message, rather than the logo of his search engine.

"I see it's come to your attention."

John jumped, spinning round and drawing his sidearm, pointing it straight at… Mycroft's face.

Mycroft tsked, using his umbrella to gently push the barrel away from his face. "Sorry, John. Did I startle you?"

"A bit." John admitted, tucking his gun away. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I simply came to see how you are feeling."

"Uh-huh. I'm fine. What do you know about this message? It's everywhere."

Mycroft regarded John for a moment in that infuriatingly 'older-brotherly-I-know-something-you-don't-know' way. "Do you think it could be from Sherlock?"

"Is it?" John demanded, finally meeting Mycroft's eyes.

"You saw Sherlock jump from that building. You saw his body and felt his lack of pulse. Now, tell me, John, do _you_ believe it could be from Sherlock? Do you believe he somehow survived that fall? That he faked his own death? That he abandoned you to this misery and moping, only to reignite the feeling of hope by sending a message, a message of 'love', to every device in the Northern hemisphere? Do you believe that, John?"

John's shoulders slumped. "No. No, you're- you're right. It couldn't possibly be from Sherlock." He said in defeat, adding in an undertone, "Though I wouldn't put it past him."

"Hmm?" Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

"Nothing. I suppose your office is investigating it?"

Mycroft gave a small smile. "Oh no, that sort of thing would be left to someone much higher up in the political food chain than I."

"Sure. Alright, then. It… it was nice seeing you, Mycroft."

"It was a pleasure to see you as well, John. In the next week or so, I or Chelsea may visit you to make sure you are coping adequately, but other than that, we shall leave you to grieve." Mycroft replied, heading for the door.

"Er, thanks. I, um, appreciate it. Chelsea is Anthea's new name, right?" John said awkwardly.

"Good night, John. Pleasant dreams." And with that, the door closed and Mycroft was gone. Well, John assumed he was gone. He was highly doubtful that Mycroft had ever done anything so common as eavesdropping at a keyhole.

Turning back to his laptop, John felt his spirits plummet. The message was gone. Shutting down the computer, he resigned himself to believing it was nothing more than a coincidence. After all, there were a lot of Johns in the world. Surely one of them had to have an extremely intelligent, computer-savvy girlfriend/boyfriend. Switching off the TV, John rubbed his eyes and decided it was time for bed.

Closing his door, John felt too tired to bother with his clothes or anything, and instead decided to simply crawl under the sheets. A fraction of a second before he fell into bed, he spotted a folded over piece of paper. _What on earth?_

Flicking on his lamp, he opened the letter and let out a small gasp.

_I love you, John._


End file.
